Guillaume lay very still, exhausted, beaten, and defenceless. Dieppe released his hands, and, rising, stood looking down at him. A smile came on his face.

"We are now in a better position to adjust our accounts fairly," he observed, as he took from his pocket M. Guillaume's portfolio. "Listen," he commanded; and Guillaume turned weary but spiteful eyes to him. "Here is your portfolio. Take it. Look at it."

Guillaume sat up and obeyed the command.

"Well?" asked Dieppe, when the examination was ended.

"You have robbed me of twenty-five thousand francs."

The Captain looked at him for a moment with a frown. But the next instant he smiled.

"I must make allowances for the state of your temper," he remarked. "But I wish you would carry all your money in notes. That draft, now, is no use to me. Hence" – he shrugged his shoulders regretfully – "I am obliged to leave your Government still no less than twenty-five thousand francs in debt to me."

"What!" cried Guillaume, with a savage stare.

"Oh, yes, you know that well. They have fifty thousand which certainly don't belong to them, and certainly do to me."

"That money 's forfeited," growled Guillaume.

"If you like, then, I forfeit twenty-five thousand of theirs. But I allow it in account with them. The debt now stands reduced by half."

"I 'll get it back from you somehow," threatened Guillaume, who was helpless, but not cowed.

"That will be difficult. I gave it to Paul de Roustache to discharge a claim he had on me."

"To Paul de Roustache?"

"Yes. It 's true he lent me five thousand again; but that 's purely between him and me. And I shall have spent it long before you can even begin to take steps to recover it." He paused a moment and then added, "If you still hanker after your notes, I should recommend you to find your friend and accomplice, M. Paul."

"Where is he?"

"Who can tell? I saw him last on the road across the river – it leads to Sasellano, I believe." Dieppe kept his eye on his vanquished opponent, but Guillaume threatened no movement. The Captain dropped the revolver into his pocket, stooped to pull up a tuft of grass with moist earth adhering to it, and, with the help of his handkerchief, made a primitive plaster to stanch the bleeding of his ear. As he was so engaged, the sound of wheels slowly climbing the hill became audible from the direction of the village.

"You see," he went on, "you can't return to the village – you are on too good terms with the police. Let me advise you to go to Sasellano; the flood will be falling by now, and I should n't wonder if we could find you a means of conveyance." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the road behind him.

"I can't go back to the village?" demanded Guillaume, sullenly.

"In my turn I must beg you to remember that I now carry a revolver. Come, M. Guillaume, we 've played a close hand, but the odd trick 's mine. Go back and tell your employers not to waste their time on me. No, nor their money. They have won the big stake; let them be content. And again let me remind you that Paul de Roustache has your twenty thousand francs. I don't think you 'll get them from him, but you might. From me you 'll get nothing; and if you try the law – oh, think, my friend, how very silly you and your Government will look!"

As he spoke he went up to Guillaume and took him by the arm, exerting a friendly and persuasive pressure, under which Guillaume presently found himself mounting the eminence. The wheels sounded nearer now, and Dieppe's ears were awake to their movements. The pair began to walk down the other side of the slope towards the Cross, and the carriage came into their view. It was easy of identification: its broken-down, lopsided top marked it beyond mistake.

An instant later Dieppe recognised the burly figure of the driver, who was walking by his horses' heads.

"Wonderfully convenient!" he exclaimed. "This fellow will carry you to Sasellano without delay."

Guillaume did not – indeed could not – refuse to obey the prompting of the Captain's arm, but he grumbled as he went.

"I made sure of getting your papers," he said.

"Unlooked-for difficulties will arise, my dear M. Guillaume."

"I thought the reward was as good as in my pocket."

"The reward?" The Captain stopped and looked in his companion's face with some amusement and a decided air of gratification. "There was a reward? Oh, I am important, it seems!"

"Five thousand francs," said Guillaume, sullenly.

"They rate me rather cheap," exclaimed the Captain, his face falling. "I should have hoped for five-and-twenty."

"Would you? If it had been that, I should have brought three men with me."

"Hum!" said the Captain. "And you gave me a stiff job by yourself, eh?" He turned and signalled to the driver, who had now reached the Cross:

"Wait a moment there, my friend." Then he turned back again to Guillaume. "Get into the carriage – go to Sasellano; catch Paul if you can, but leave me in peace," he said, and, diving into his pocket, he produced the five notes of a thousand francs which Paul de Roustache, in some strange impulse of repentance, or gratitude, had handed to him. "What you tell your employers," he added, "I don't care. This is a gift from me to you. The deuce, I reward effort as well as success – I am more liberal than your Government." The gesture with which he held out the notes was magnificent.

Guillaume stared at him in amazement, but his hand went out towards the notes.

"I am free to do what I can at Sasellano?"

"Yes, free to do anything except bother me. But I think your bird will have flown."

Guillaume took the notes and hid them in his pocket; then he walked straight up to the driver, crying, "How much to take me with you to Sasellano?"

The driver looked at him, at Dieppe, and then down towards the river.

"Come, the flood will be less by now; the river will be falling," said Dieppe.

"Fifty francs," said the driver, and Guillaume got in.

"Good!" said the Captain to himself. "A pretty device! And that scoundrel's money did n't lie comfortably in the pocket of a gentleman." He waved his hand to Guillaume and was about to turn away, when the driver came up to him and spoke in a cautious whisper, first looking over his shoulder to see whether his new fare were listening; but Guillaume was sucking at a flask.

"I have a message for you," he said.

"From the lady you carried – ?"

"To the Count of Fieramondi's."

"Ah, you took her there?" The Captain frowned heavily.

"Yes, and left her there. But it's not from her; it's from another lady whom I had n't seen before. She met me just as I was returning from the Count's, and bade me look out for you by the Cross – "

"Yes, yes?" cried Dieppe, eagerly. "Give me the message." For his thoughts flew back to the Countess at the first summons.

The driver produced a scrap of paper, carelessly folded, and gave it to him.

Dieppe ran to the carriage and read the message by the light of its dim and smoky lamp:

"I think I am in time. Come; I wait for you. Whatever you see, keep Andrea in the dark. If you are discreet, all will be well, and I – I shall be very grateful."

The driver mounted the box, the carriage rolled off down the hill, Dieppe was left by the Cross, with the message in his hand. He did not understand the situation.

CHAPTER X
THE JOURNEY TO ROME

It was about ten o'clock – or, it may be, nearer half-past ten – the same night when two inhabitants of the village received very genuine, yet far from unpleasant, shocks of surprise.

The first was the parish priest. He was returning from a visit to the bedside of a sick peasant and making his way along the straggling street towards his own modest dwelling, which stood near the inn, when he met a tall stranger of most dilapidated appearance, whose clothes were creased and dirty, and whose head was encircled by a stained and grimy handkerchief. He wore no hat; his face was disfigured with blotches of an ugly colour and, maybe, an uglier significance; his trousers were most atrociously rent and tattered; he walked with a limp, and shivered in the cold night air. This unpromising-looking person approached the priest and addressed him with an elaborate courtesy oddly out of keeping with his scarecrow-like appearance, but with words appropriate enough to the figure that he cut.

"Reverend father," said he, "pardon the liberty I take, but may I beg of your Reverence's great kindness – "

"It 's no use begging of me," interrupted the priest hurriedly, for he was rather alarmed. "In the first place, I have nothing; in the second, mendicancy is forbidden by the regulations of the commune."

The wayfarer stared at the priest, looked down at his own apparel, and then burst into a laugh.

"Begging forbidden, eh?" he exclaimed. "Then the poor must need voluntary aid!" He thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out two French five-franc pieces. "For the poor, father," he said, pressing them into the priest's hand. "For myself, I was merely about to ask you the time of night." And before the astonished priest could make any movement the stranger passed on his way, humming a soft, and sentimental tune.

"He was certainly mad, but he undoubtedly gave me ten francs," said the priest to his friend the innkeeper, the next day.

"I wish," growled the innkeeper, "that somebody would give me some money to pay for what those two runaway rogues who lodged here had of me, their baggage is worth no more than half what they 've cost me, and I 'll lay odds I never clap eyes on them again."

And in this suspicion the innkeeper proved, in the issue, to be absolutely right, about the value of the luggage there is, however, more room for doubt.

The second person who suffered a surprise was no less a man than the Count of Fieramondi himself. But how this came about needs a little more explanation.

In that very room through whose doorway Captain Dieppe had first beheld the lady whom he now worshipped with a devotion as ardent as it was unhappy, there were now two ladies engaged in conversation. One sat in an arm-chair, nursing the yellow cat of which mention has been made earlier in this history; the other walked up and down with every appearance of weariness, trouble, and distress on her handsome face.

"Oh, the Bishop was just as bad as the banker," she cried fretfully, "and the banker was just as silly as the Bishop. The Bishop said that, although he might have considered the question of giving me absolution from a vow which I had been practically compelled to take, he could hold out no prospect of my getting it beforehand for taking a vow which I took with no other intention than that of breaking it."

"I told you he 'd say that before you went," observed the lady in the arm-chair, who seemed to be treating the situation with a coolness in strong contrast to her companion's agitation.

"And the banker said that although, if I had actually spent fifty thousand lire more than I possessed, he would have done his best to see how he could extricate me from the trouble, he certainly would not help me to get fifty thousand for the express purpose of throwing them away."

"I thought the banker would say that," remarked the other lady, caressing the cat.

"And they both advised me to take my husband's opinion on the matter. My husband's opinion!" Her tone was bitter and tragic indeed. "I suppose they 're right," she said, flinging herself dejectedly into a chair. "I must tell Andrea everything. Oh, and he 'll forgive me!"

"Well, I should think it's rather nice being forgiven."

"Oh, no, not by Andrea!" The faintest smile flitted for an instant across her face. "Oh, no, Andrea does n't forgive like that. His forgiveness is very – well, horribly biblical, you know. Oh, I 'd better not have gone to Rome at all!"

"I never saw any good in your going to Rome, you know."

"Yes, I must tell him everything. Because Paul de Roustache is sure to come and – "

"He 's come already," observed the second lady, calmly.

"What? Come?"

The other lady set down the cat, rose to her feet, took out of her pocket a gold ring and a gold locket, walked over to her companion, and held them out to her. "These are yours, are n't they?" she inquired, and broke into a merry laugh. The sight brought nothing but an astonished stare and a breathless ejaculation —

"Lucia!"

The two ladies drew their chairs close together, and a long conversation ensued, Lucia being the chief narrator, while her companion, whom she addressed from time to time as Emilia, did little more than listen and throw in exclamations of wonder, surprise, or delight.

"How splendidly you kept the secret!" she cried once. And again, "How lucky that he should be here!" And again, "I thought he looked quite charming." And once again, "But, goodness, what a state the poor man must be in! How could you help telling him, Lucia?"

"I had promised," said Lucia, solemnly, "and I keep my promises, Emilia."

"And that man has positively gone?" sighed Emilia, taking no notice of a rather challenging emphasis which Lucia had laid on her last remark.

"Yes, gone for good – I 'm sure of it. And you need n't tell Andrea anything. Just take all the vows he asks you to! But he won't now; you see he wants a reconciliation as much as you do."

"I shall insist on taking at least one vow," said Emilia, with a virtuous air. She stopped and started. "But what in the world am I to say about you, my dear?" she asked.

"Say I 've just come back from Rome, of course," responded Lucia.

"If he should find out – "

"It 's very unlikely, and at the worst you must take another vow, Emilia. But Andrea 'll never suspect the truth unless – "

"Unless what?"

"Unless Captain Dieppe lets it out, you know."

"It would be better if Captain Dieppe did n't come back, I think," observed Emilia, thoughtfully.

"Well, of all the ungrateful women!" cried Lucia, indignantly. But Emilia sprang up and kissed her, and began pressing her with all sorts of questions, or rather with all sorts of ways of putting one question, which made her blush very much, and to which she seemed unable, or unwilling, to give any definite reply. At last Emilia abandoned the attempt to extract an admission, and observed with a sigh of satisfaction:

"I think I 'd better see Andrea and forgive him."

"You 'll change your frock first, won't you, dear?" cried Lucia. It was certainly not desirable that Emilia should present herself to the Count in the garments she was then wearing.

"Yes, of course. Will you come with me to Andrea?"

"No. Send for me, presently – as soon as it occurs to you that I 've just come back from Rome, you know, and should be so happy to hear of your reconciliation."

Half an hour later, – for the change of costume had to be radical, since there is all the difference in the world between a travelling-dress and an easy, negligent, yet elegant, toilette suggestive of home and the fireside, and certainly not of wanderings, – the Count of Fieramondi got his shock of surprise in the shape of an inquiry whether he were at leisure to receive a visit from the Countess.

Yet his surprise, great as it was at a result at once so prosperous and so speedy, did not prevent him from drawing the obvious inference. His thoughts had already been occupied with Captain Dieppe. It was now half-past ten; he had waited an hour for dinner, and then eaten it alone in some disquietude; as time went on he became seriously uneasy, and had considered the despatch of a search expedition. If his friend did not return in half an hour, he had declared, he himself would go and look for him; and he had requested that he should be informed the moment the Captain put in an appearance. But, alas! what is friendship – even friendship reinforced by gratitude – beside love? As the poets have often remarked, in language not here to be attained, its power is insignificant, and its claims go to the wall. On fire with the emotions excited by the Countess's message, the Count forgot both Dieppe and all that he owed to Dieppe's intercession; the matter went clean out of his head for the moment. He leapt up, pushed away the poem on which he had been trying to concentrate his mind, and cried eagerly:

"I 'm at the Countess's disposal. I 'll wait on her at once."

"The Countess is already on her way here," was the servant's answer.

The first transports of joy are perhaps better left in a sacred privacy. Indeed the Count was not for much explanation, or for many words. What need was there? The Countess acquiesced in his view with remarkable alacrity; the fewer words there were, and especially, perhaps, the fewer explanations, the easier and more gracious was her part. She had thought the matter over, there in the solitude to which her Andrea's cruelty had condemned her: and, yes, she would take the oath – in fact any number of oaths – to hold no further communication whatever with Paul de Roustache.

"Ah, your very offer is a reproach to me," said the Count, softly. "I told you that now I ask no oath, that your promise was enough, that – "

"You told me?" exclaimed the Countess, with some appearance of surprise.

"Why, yes. At least I begged Dieppe to tell you in my name. Did n't he?"

For a moment the Countess paused, engaged in rapid calculations, then she said sweetly:

"Oh, yes, of course! But it's not the same as hearing it from your own lips, Andrea."

"Where did you see him?" asked the Count. "Did he pass the barricade? Ah, we 'll soon have that down, won't we?"

"Oh, yes, Andrea; do let 's have it down, because – "

"But where did you and Dieppe have your talk?"

"Oh – oh – down by the river, Andrea."

"He found you there?"

"Yes, he found me there, and – and talked to me."

"And gave you back the ring?" inquired the Count, tenderly.

The Countess took it from her pocket and handed it to her husband. "I 'd rather you 'd put it on yourself," she said.

The Count took her hand in his and placed the ring on her finger. It fitted very well, indeed. There could be no doubt that it was made for the hand on which it now rested. The Count kissed it as he set it there.

At last, however, he found time to remember the obligations he was under to his friend.

"But where can our dear Dieppe be?" he cried. "We owe so much to him."

"Yes, we do owe a lot to him," murmured the Countess. "But, Andrea – "

"Indeed, my darling, we must n't forget him. I must – "

"No, we must n't forget him. Oh, no, we won't. But, Andrea, I – I 've got another piece of news for you." The Countess spoke with a little timidity, as if she were trying delicate ground, and were not quite sure of her footing.

"More news? What an eventful night!"

He took his wife's hand. Away went all thoughts of poor Dieppe again.

"Yes, it's so lucky, happening just to-night. Lucia has come back! An hour ago!"

"Lucia come back!" exclaimed the Count, gladly. "That's good news, indeed."

"It 'll delight her so much to find us – to find us like this again, Andrea."

"Yes, yes, we must send for her. Is she in her room? And where has she come from?"

"Rome," answered the Countess, again in a rather nervous way.

"Rome!" cried the Count in surprise. "What took her to Rome?"

"She does n't like to be asked much about it," began the Countess, with a prudent air.

"I 'm sure I don't want to pry into her affairs, but – "

"No, I knew you would n't want to do that, Andrea."

"Still, my dear, it 's really a little odd. She left only four days ago. Now she 's back, and – "

The Count broke off, looking rather distressed. Such proceedings, accompanied by such mystery, were not, to his mind, quite the proper thing for a young and unmarried lady.

"I won't ask her any questions," he went on, "but I suppose she 's told you, Emilia?"

"Oh, yes, she 's told me," said the Countess, hastily.

"And am I to be excluded from your confidence?"

The Countess put her arms round his neck.

"Well, you know, Andrea," said she, "you do sometimes scoff at religion – well, I mean you talk rather lightly sometimes, you know."

"Oh, she went on a religious errand, did she?"

"Yes," the Countess answered in a more confident tone. "She particularly wanted to consult the Bishop of Mesopotamia. She believes in him very much. Oh, so do I. I do believe, Andrea, that if you knew the Bishop of – "

"My dear, I don't want to know the Bishop of Mesopotamia; but Lucia is perfectly at liberty to consult him as much as she pleases. I don't see any need for mystery."

"No, neither do I," murmured the Countess. "But dear Lucia is – is so sensitive, you know."

"I remember seeing him about Rome very well. I must ask Lucia whether he still wears that – "

"Really, the less you question Lucia about her journey the better, dear Andrea," said the Countess, in a tone which was very affectionate, but also marked by much decision. And there can be no doubt she spoke the truth, from her own point of view, at least. "Would n't it be kind to send for her now?" she added. In fact the Countess found this interview, so gratifying and delightful in its main aspect, rather difficult in certain minor ways, and Lucia would be a convenient ally. It was much better, too, that they should talk about one another in one another's presence. That is always more straightforward; and, in this case, it would minimise the chances of a misunderstanding in the future. For instance, if Lucia showed ignorance about the Bishop of Mesopotamia – ! "Do let's send for Lucia," the Countess said again, coaxingly; and the Count, after a playful show of unwillingness to end their tête-à-tête, at last consented.

But here was another difficulty – Lucia could not be found. The right wing was searched without result; she was nowhere. On the chance, unlikely indeed but possible, that she had taken advantage of the new state of things, they searched the left wing too – with an equal absence of result. Lucia was nowhere in the house; so it was reported. The Count was very much surprised.

"Can she have gone out at this time of night?" he cried.

The Countess was not much surprised. She well understood how Lucia might have gone out a little way – far enough, say, to look for Captain Dieppe, and make him aware of how matters stood. But she did not suggest this explanation to her husband; explanations are to be avoided when they themselves require too much explaining.

"It's very fine now," said she, looking out of the window. "Perhaps she's just gone for a turn on the road."

"What for?" asked the Count, spreading out his hands in some bewilderment.

The Countess, in an extremity, once more invoked the aid of the Bishop of Mesopotamia.

"Perhaps, dear," she said gently, "to think it over – to reflect in quiet on what she has learnt and been advised." And she added, as an artistic touch, "To think it over under the stars, dear Andrea."

The Count, betraying a trifle of impatience, turned to the servant.

"Run down the road," he commanded, "and see if the Countess Lucia is anywhere about." He returned to his wife's side. "One good thing about it is that we can have our talk out," said he.

"Yes, but let 's leave the horrid past and talk about the future," urged the Countess, with affection – and no doubt with wisdom also.

The servant, who in obedience to the Count's order ran down the road towards the village, did not see the Countess Lucia. That lady, mistrusting the explicitness of her hurried note, had stolen out into the garden, and was now standing hidden in the shadow of the barricade, straining her eyes down the hill towards the river and the stepping-stones. There lay the shortest way for the Captain to return – and of course, she had reasoned, he would come the shortest way. She did not, however, allow for the Captain's pardonable reluctance to get wet a third time that night. He did not know the habits of the river, and he distrusted the stepping-stones. After his experience he was all for a bridge. Moreover he did not hurry back to the Castle; he had much to think over, and no inviting prospect lured him home on the wings of hope. What hope was there? What hope of happiness either for himself or for the lady whom he loved? If he yielded to his love, he wronged her – her and his own honour. If he resisted, he must renounce her – aye, and leave her, not to a loving husband, but to one who deceived her most grossly and most cruelly, in a way which made her own venial errors seem as nothing in the Captain's partial, pitying eyes. In the distress of these thoughts he forgot his victories: how he had disposed of Paul de Roustache, how he had defeated M. Guillaume, how his precious papers were safe, and even how the Countess was freed from all her fears. It was her misery he thought of now, not her fears. For she loved him. And in his inmost heart he knew that he must leave her.

Yes; in the recesses of his heart he knew what true love for her and a true regard for his own honour alike demanded. But he did not mean that, because he saw this and was resolved to act on it, the Count should escape castigation. Before he went, before he left behind him what was dearest in life, and again took his way alone, unfriended, solitary (penniless too, if he had happened to remember this), he would speak his mind to the Count, first in stinging reproaches, later in the appeal that friendship may make to honour; and at the last he would demand from the Count, as the recompense for his own services, an utter renunciation and abandonment of the lady who had dropped the locket by the ford, of her whom the driver had carried to the door of the house which the Countess of Fieramondi honoured with her gracious presence. In drawing a contrast between the Countess and this shameless woman the last remembrance of the Countess's peccadilloes faded from his indignant mind. He quickened his pace a little, as a man does when he has reached a final decision. He crossed the bridge, ascended the hill on which the Castle stood, and came opposite to the little gate which the Count himself had opened to him on that first happy – or unhappy – night on which he had become an inmate of the house.

Even as he came to it, it opened, and the Count's servant ran out. In a moment he saw Dieppe and called to him loudly and gladly.

"Sir, sir, my master is most anxious about you. He feared for your safety."

"I 'm safe enough," answered Dieppe, in a gloomy tone.

"He begs your immediate presence, sir. He is in the dining-room."

Dieppe braced himself to the task before him.

"I will follow you," he said; and passing the gate he allowed the servant to precede him into the house. "Now for what I must say!" he thought, as he was conducted towards the dining-room.

The servant had been ordered to let the Count know the moment that Captain Dieppe returned. How obey these orders more to the letter than by ushering the Captain himself directly into the Count's presence? He threw open the door, announcing —

"Captain Dieppe!" and then withdrawing with dexterous quickness.

Captain Dieppe had expected nothing good. The reality was worse than his imagining The Count sat on a sofa, and by him, with her arms round his neck, was the lady whom Dieppe had escorted across the ford on the road from Sasellano. The Captain stood still just within the doorway, frowning heavily. Sadly he remembered the Countess's letter. Alas, it was plain enough that she had not come in time!

Just at this moment the servant, having seen nothing of Countess Lucia on the road, decided, as a last resort, to search the garden for her Ladyship.